The Little Book of Spooky Stories

:|: Twelve :|:

Molly didn't believe the fortune teller at the travelling fair when she told her that Death was lurking nearby. She was nothing more than a charlatan, preying on the weak minded.

She was too young to die. She still had so much left to do; like today, for instance, she had to audition for the school play. She opened her diary to double check her audition time, but all she found scrawled in big black letters were the words, 'YOU'RE DEAD!'

It was probably her dumb brother playing his stupid tricks on her, again. "Brandon!" Molly shouted as she stomped her way along the hall to his bedroom.

He was laying on his bed facing the wall; he didn't turn around, he didn't even flinch at the sound of his name.

"Brandon," she said again.

But still, he ignored her.

Molly reached out and put her hand on his shoulder; it was only then that he turned around. His eyes were red, his face blotchy; he'd been crying.

"What's the matter with you?" Molly asked him.

Brandon still didn't acknowledge her; it was almost as if he could see straight through her. He put his hand on his shoulder in the same spot where Molly had touched him and squeezed gently.

Molly watched as he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jumper; that was when she noticed that he was wearing one of her old sweaters.

In the back of her mind, Molly knew what was wrong with Brandon, but she wouldn't believe it until she saw her parents. It couldn't be true.

She ran through the house in search of her mum and dad . . .

* * *

Molly could only watch as her mother moved about the house in a daze, before spontaneously bursting into tears. Molly tried to comfort her, but for some reason, her mother only shivered whenever Molly made contact with her skin.

Her dad spent most days slumped at the kitchen table a half-empty bottle of whisky for company she'd watch as he'd stumble through the house, and stand in the doorway of her bedroom and stare into space.

And no matter how many times she tried to talk to Brandon, all he did was ignore her.

Why couldn't they hear her shouts and screams from the coffin that she'd just watched being lowered into the ground? She didn't like it in there, and she didn't like the dark; she never had.

There had been a mistake; she wasn't dead.